Harry Potter and the Reluctantly Paternal Uncle
by PenRifle
Summary: Vernon Dursley likes to drink. Harry uses this to his advantage. Soon, between mixing drinks and discussing cars, they form an unlikely and somewhat disturbing bond. Chaos is sure to ensue. Featuring Happy-Drunk!Vernon and Smart!Harry. AU. HP/LL, RW/HG.
1. Mixed Drinks

**Harry Potter and the Reluctantly Paternal Uncle**

**A/N**: _Concept: Vernon and Harry get along. Chance of successfully completing story: moderate to strong. Interest in continuing story: high. Likelihood of next chapter being shot out as soon as I receive five or so reviews? Astronomically high. R/R! :D_

**Chapter One: Mixed Drinks**

-0-

It was early in the morning on the first day of November, 1981, that the Dursleys' lives changed forever. It happened when a one-hundred-forty-something-year-old wizard dropped a baby off on their front porch.

For six years, Harry was the object of his relatives' disgust and disdain. For six years they pretended he didn't exist, locked him in his cupboard for the least of transgressions, and blatantly favored his cousin—their son—over him in any situation they could think of. Suddenly and inexplicably, Vernon suggested to his wife that they begin treating the boy with some dignity. He claimed he was concerned the boy would complain at school, and he didn't want the drama. Petunia, ever attentive to her husband's whims, took to ignoring the boy.

-0-

The years since then had changed the Dursley home—albeit not much. Ten years ago, the mantelpiece above the electric fireplace had featured a series of pictures of a fat, pink baby in various outfits his mother had forced him into. Now, the frames were the same but the series of pictures showcased a fat, pink eleven-year-old boy riding a carousel with his mother (in outfits she had forced him into) and in another eating a large hamburger while his father looked on. Almost forgotten, on the very edge of the mantelpiece, partially hidden by a votive candle in a small (but tasteful) dish, was a picture of a dark-haired boy in a pair of oval, wire-rimmed eyeglasses sitting next to his uncle on the sitting room sofa.

Harry Potter. Always partially hidden. Outshone by his cousin's normalcy, his cousin's bulk, his cousin's whims. However, unbeknownst to his cousin Dudley and his Aunt Petunia, Vernon liked a nightcap. A nightly nightcap. Brandy on Tuesdays and Thursdays, vodka and tonic on Fridays, whisky and coke on Saturdays.

One night, after his seventh birthday had come and passed, Harry was waiting for Vernon when the man sneaked downstairs. He had already mixed the drink. Vernon tried it, his eyes lit up, and a shaky partnership was born.

Sundays, Mondays and Wednesdays his uncle had taken to drinking Bloody Marys. It wasn't that he'd had a particular affinity for them, but Dudley wouldn't drink tomato juice even if it asked him nicely and Vernon still had half a case of vodka left from the Grunnings Christmas party last year. One evening, feeling jocular, he had actually suggested Harry become a bartender after one of these specialties. Then he remembered that he was supposed to hate the boy.

Despite the necessity for his dislike, he found that the boy was actually strangely engaging—at least for a seven-year-old. It was at this time that he suggested to Petunia that Harry's treatment at their hands improve. If Vernon had known that the boy was carefully monitoring his moods and mixing the drinks accordingly, he would have been furious. Vernon was a bit daft, however, and not good at judging the alcoholic content of a drink until he had emptied half the glass. By half a glass, he could almost forget Harry was one of _them._ By a full glass, Harry might as well have been a peer. The boy was always attentive, thoughtful in his responses, and polite.

Harry had discovered his uncle's weakness for a good stiff drink at the age of seven. By the age of ten he was expertly mixing the four drinks his uncle preferred, although he'd experimented with a few others. The trick was to get Uncle Vernon an extra-large glass of his preferred beverage, then; "Uncle Vernon, sir, I was reading that book that I got the proportions for your whisky and coke from, and I stumbled upon something called a Royal Flush..."

Harry himself had a bit of an affinity for that particular drink. Three ounces of Crown Royal, two ounces of peach schnapps, two ounces of cranberry juice and an ounce of raspberry liqueur. One big sip for Harry, clean off the edge of the glass with his sleeve, and he'd carry it from the kitchen to the sitting room. Harry would enjoy a pleasant buzz for the rest of the evening, and Uncle Vernon would get, well, drunker.

In early March, one Friday night, Vernon and Harry were in the midst of a conversation about Vernon's new car (a black six-speed '91 BMW 850) when Vernon closed the magazine and turned to Harry, a serious expression on his face. This, of course, was no mean feat for a man who would still be too drunk to stand up for another half an hour. "Boy," he began, "do you still remember what I told you on New Year's Eve?"

-0-

Harry had been particularly morose that evening, shut up in his room (his uncle had been swayed to replace Harry's cupboard with the smaller of the two bedrooms on Harry's ninth birthday) while his aunt hosted a costume party. There was a knock on his door about ten minutes before he estimated the guests would arrive. Vernon entered the room and set a paper bag down inside the door.

"I've told your aunt that one of the guests arrived early and was using the upstairs lavatory. I made it quite clear she was to stay downstairs, and I'd make sure you were quiet this evening." Vernon hesitated, fidgeted, then steeled himself. "While I hate to admit it, I've been wrong about you, boy. You're... you're not a freak. I admit you're abnormal, but in your world, well..." he paused here, uncertain of how to proceed. "You've shown respect and obedience to your aunt and I, and you are very detail-oriented when it comes to your chores. You exhibit patience and tact, and are nothing short of any parent's dream. Well, except the freaky stuff, but..." he paused again. "There's a costume in the bag." He gave Harry a stern look. "You had laryngitis and you can't speak. If you _must _speak, try to sound like you're sick."

Harry calmed himself so that he didn't accidentally animate one of Dudley's toys in his glee—the toys were still stored in the room despite his residence there—nodded his head slowly, and waited until his uncle had closed the door to tear into the bag. Inside he found a pair of leggings, a comical mask, a jester's hat, and a tunic. There was also a pair of strange shoes with curled toes topped with a single bell. As Harry hurriedly dressed, he vaguely hoped this costume fit into the theme of the party. As he came downstairs, his Aunt squawked in surprise.

"What an adorable costume," she simpered. "And to think I missed you coming in." When Harry said nothing, she started. "Oh, Nicholas, I'm so sorry, Vernon did say you'd had laryngitis."

"Yes, ma'am," Harry rasped.

"And so polite," she cooed. She paused. "You're not still contagious, are you?"

"No, ma'am," he squawked.

She winced. "That's good. All the same, between us, would you mind keeping the mask on this evening? There are some important people from my husband's line of work coming for the party and I wouldn't want to make them uncomfortable."

"Of course, ma'am," Harry growled, trying to make it sound like a lot of effort.

Petunia winced. "How about we tell them you're mute, yes, that'll do... have you ever played Charades?" Harry hadn't, but he'd watched his aunt and uncle play with his cousin. It was a remarkably simple game, the type that had dominated Dudley's childhood until he discovered video games. He nodded. "We'll tell them they have to guess what you're trying to tell them. How does that sound, dear?" Harry bobbed his head up and down, trying to look encouraging. It must have worked. Petunia kissed him on top of his head, then Vernon showed up and chivvied "Nicholas" along to "meet" Dudley and Piers Polkiss.

The party was a great success. Vernon landed two contracts that evening, Petunia handed out three copies of her fudge recipe, and Dudley and Piers managed to sneak half a bottle of rum outside. It was eye-opening for Harry as well. He began to learn that while asserting his personality quietly was the best way to deal with his relatives, other people tended to be open to different approaches. He stored away this information for later as he was rarely around other people. His uncle took Harry's happiness at being allowed this reward as an indication that the boy would probably respond well to reward-based incentives in the future.

Harry, for his part, remained quiet and respectful; paid attention to his studies; finished his chores as quickly as possible; and continued mixing his uncle's drinks at ten every evening.

-0-

"Yes, sir," Harry said. "Quite well, actually. Remember when Piers threw up on Dudley about two minutes after the last guest left?"

Vernon suppressed a smirk. "Remember when your aunt found the costume?"

"You told her that Nicholas left it for Dudley, and Dudley tried it on, and ripped it in half." Harry giggled quietly. "Dudley's far more... bulky than I am, I'm surprised he even tried it on."

"I was really thinking more of the conversation we had before the party," Vernon said, waging an internal war over whether he should laugh at the memory or scold Harry for insinuating his son actually weighed a bit more than his wife's conservative estimates.

"Where you complimented me about five times in the same conversation?" Harry nodded. "I about had a heart attack."

Vernon nodded. "Well, I need a promise from you, and I'll give you something in return."

"So you let me go to the party because the way I act is the way you like me to act, right?" Harry asked. Vernon nodded. "And if I make this promise to you, then you'll tell me what really happened to my parents?"

Vernon would have been shocked at the audacity of the request if he had been sober. However, Harry had mixed him three large drinks this evening, and the smooth way in which Harry had interjected had him convinced that he'd just offered that proposition himself. "Well, yes, I suppose," he said slowly. "I need you to promise that you will never tell your Aunt Petunia about..." he motioned to the empty glasses.

Harry tilted his head at his uncle, confused. "Why would I talk to Aunt Petunia, sir?" he asked.

"I mean if she ever asks you," Vernon clarified.

"So you want me to lie?" Harry asked. "You told me to never lie."

"I told you to never lie to me. Remember, boy, women _want _you to lie to them. Their hair looks wonderful, their clothing fits perfectly, their makeup is just right..." he paused. No need to turn the boy off women for good. "A little lie here and there is not going to hurt anyone, and we both actually stand to benefit from it."

"Because you don't get in trouble and I get to hear what happened to my parents," Harry said slowly.

"Precisely."

Harry extended one small, pale hand. "Deal, Uncle Vernon. I promise not to tell Aunt Petunia about your drinks."

Vernon cringed inwardly, but accepted the boy's handshake. "Your parents were..." Vernon took a deep breath. "Boy, go mix me another vodka and tonic." Vernon picked up a legal pad and a pen, and began hastily composing a list. "Heavy on the vodka."

"Yes, sir."

-0-

When the letter arrived, Harry stowed it inside the pocket of his jeans and turned the rest of the mail over to his Uncle, who raised an eyebrow at him. He nodded, and his uncle returned to his breakfast. After breakfast, Vernon typed up an answer to the letter and sealed it in an envelope. The owl sitting on the brass railing on their front porch turned expectantly toward Harry as he pushed open the storm door. Harry proffered the letter, and the owl hooted derisively. The boy cocked his head at the bird, then noticed the leg extended to him. With trepidation, he slowly and carefully rolled up the envelope and placed it in the owl's talons.

The owl hooted at him, took flight, and the boy went back inside. "Your Aunt is at a spa for the day, Dudley is in London with my sister, and we have some shopping to do." Vernon narrowed his eyes at the boy. "I _hate_ shopping. You will quickly acquire the items on the list, in the sizes listed, and you will not check price tags. I am a fairly wealthy man." His tone brokered no room for argument. "Am I understood?"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon." Harry was nearly vibrating with excitement.

"You will do the rest of your shopping with a Professor McGonagall, who will be meeting you at the park tomorrow morning at nine sharp. I do not want to talk to her. I do not want to see her. I do not want to hear her. And when you come back tomorrow night, you will have the trunk that I will buy for you today, and none of your... things... will be visible. Your aunt has been made aware of the situation and she will be expecting you home to make dinner." Vernon seemed to be doing some more of the soul-searching he indulged in whenever he was talking about magic. "You will ask her to... shrink... your supplies. You will carry them in your pocket and you will not speak of them or use them until after you have left. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

His uncle seemed to notice that he was unnerving the boy, so he decided on another tactic. "Now that that has been taken care of, let's go get you some proper clothing. Don't need you looking scruffy when you get to school."

At the end of the day, Harry had been properly outfitted with enough clothing that Vernon had to carry the trunk so Harry could manage the bags. They managed to get everything inside, de-tagged, folded, and either put in the unused dresser or the closet. Harry's old clothing went out with the garbage. By the time he'd wrestled the bag out to the curb and made his way back inside, he had fifteen minutes to start dinner.

"What am I supposed to make this evening, Uncle Vernon?" Harry queried.

"Just drinks," Vernon replied, eyes fixed on the TV screen. "Pizza's on the way. Petunia and Dudders are staying at Marge's this evening, didn't I tell you?"

Harry's eyes grew large. _Pizza?_ He was going to eat _pizza?_ He felt strangely accepted by his uncle, and hoped desperately that nothing would shatter this illusion. He carefully mixed his uncle a large Bloody Mary and poured himself a glass of cranberry juice. He thought about it for a moment, then added a few splashes of vodka. As he capped the bottle, his uncle came into the room. "Boy?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I wouldn't tell your aunt or cousin about this either," he said.

"Of course not," he blurted, then gave an apologetic grin.

"While I thought the pizza might have been incentive enough, talk to that... _Professor_... of yours tomorrow and see if she can't find you a book that fills you in on the basic details of life in... her world." Vernon gave him a piercing stare. "I would suggest you hide it as soon as you get home. Do. Not. Let. Your. Aunt. See. It."

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

Uncle Vernon harrumphed, then looked sheepish. "Is that mine?" he asked, gesturing toward the Bloody Mary.

"Oh! Yes! I took some cranberry juice, is that alright?"

"I don't care about the juice," Vernon said, turning his back on Harry as the doorbell rang. "But you might want to be careful with the vodka. They say on the telly that alcohol can stunt your growth."

Harry's jaw dropped. "But... you... how long..." He snatched up his glass and, careful not to spill any juice on Petunia's clean carpets, made his way into the living room. He watched as Vernon maneuvered two pizza boxes into the living room. Outside, Harry heard a scooter pull away from the curb. "How did you know?"

"I can read, too," Vernon said. "I know the recipes in that book. I just can't mix the drinks like you can. I know how much is supposed to be in them, and each of my glasses have the measurements marked on the outside."

"You're not angry?"

Vernon folded a slice of pizza in half and crammed it entirely into his mouth. "Be a ruddy hypocrite if I was, wouldn't I?"


	2. Some Good Advice

**Harry Potter and the Reluctantly Paternal Uncle**

**A/N**: _Wow! Lots of reviews! ...really. Lots. No, really. I didn't expect that many. And this means I have increased motivation to post, which means it's time for some good old-fashioned slave labor._

**Chapter Two: Some Good Advice**

Harry hurried to the park the next morning. He was a few minutes early, but he didn't want to make a bad first impression by showing up late. A quick glance revealed an empty park, excepting a tabby cat that was curled up and fast asleep on a bench. He quietly set his trunk down and sat gingerly, then reached out to stroke the cat's neck. The moment his hand made contact the cat startled, hissed, then leaped off the bench and ran into the bushes.

Barely did he have time to process this when the Professor, an elderly woman with gray hair tied back in a bun, emerged from the bushes in a long skirt and a maroon jacket. Harry's eyebrows rose and he rose to his feet. "What were you doing in there?" he asked, turning around to survey her more closely. "Did you see the cat?"

"You could say that," the Professor remarked. She seemed oddly ruffled, and the look didn't really fit her.

"You wouldn't be the Professor, would you?" he queried.

McGonagall composed herself a bit and nodded. "Yes, I am the Transfiguration Professor, Minerva McGonagall."

"Do you people normally hide in bushes, or is that just something Transfiguration professors do?"

She bestowed an annoyed look upon him. "Do you remember the cat?"

"Vaguely," Harry said.

"I _was _the cat," she informed him. More to herself than to him, she grumbled "I can't believe I fell asleep."

"Well," he said, casting about for a way to console her, "in your defense, it was a very warm spot."

She nodded, almost morosely. "It was."

There was about a thirty-second long awkward pause, then Harry ventured: "so, to London?"

"Oh. Yes. Of course." She gave him an unsteady smile and presented a ball of yarn. "It's a Portkey. It's a magical form of transportation. When you touch it and activate it, it will take you to a preset location."

"Are all of them balls of yarn?" Harry queried, examining it as best he could from his vantage point.

"No," she replied curtly. "Only the ones created by Headmasters who think they have a wonderful sense of humor. Most of the time, we try to use objects that are as mundane as possible so Muggles won't accidentally activate them."

"How would a Muggle go about finding one of them?" Harry asked. "I mean, almost everything in your world is supposed to be camouflaged, so Muggles can't find it. Do you frequently leave them in areas that have a lot of Muggles?"

"What?" she blurted, caught off guard for the second time that morning. "No—not at all. I mean—yes, we sometimes do, but it's more of a precaution than anything."

"Do you have to have a license to use a Portkey?" Harry asked.

"No, only to create one."

"Can you create one without a license?" Harry pressed.

"Technically—yes,you can. But it's very heavily regulated by the Ministry of Magic and anyone caught creating an unauthorized Portkey is subject to heavy fines. You can go to prison if you are using it for nefarious purposes."

"And this Portkey was authorized?" Harry asked.

"Well, no, but we suspected that we were going to encounter some resistance from your relatives when we came, so we created it in case of emergency."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "So, off to London, then?"

"Yes." She glanced around to check for Muggles, then held out the ball of yarn. "You only need to touch it with one finger." Harry reached out and touched it. "Tuna fish," McGonagall said. The ball of yarn glowed momentarily, then the two vanished.

Unseen, a BMW slowly pulled away from the curb.

-0-

Harry had worn a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a sweat shirt with a hood that hung down to cover his scar. Ever since Vernon had told him about You-Know-Who killing his parents and trying to kill him as well, he had felt a bit exposed with his scar in plain sight. McGonagall hurried him through the pub in London and out the back door. Here, Harry got his first real brush with magic when the brick wall began to move, forming an archway.

"That was wicked!" he exclaimed, looking back at the archway as they passed through. "What spell was that?"

McGonagall fastened her cloak as they walked out onto a brightly-colored marketplace where vendors were hawking wares—and, in the case of one stately witch—wearing a hawk atop her hat. "It was an enchantment," she explained. "The wall is charmed to open when the correct brick is touched."

He nodded, then remembered something. "Professor McGonagall, I have to ask, what kind of alcohol do you people have?" She glanced sharply at him. "For my uncle," he explained. "He wanted to know if 'we oddballs had mastered the art of distillation yet or if we were still drinking beer the consistency of porridge.'"

"I can see why you'd want to buy him a present," McGonagall said dryly. "He's the very picture of a good father."

"I think he does okay for himself," Harry said, petulantly folding his arms. He changed the subject again. "How am I to pay for my school things?"

The professor felt she had somehow offended the boy, but she ushered him toward Gringotts, explaining how a trust vault worked. He asked careful questions and by the time he was back on Diagon Alley, coins in hand, he was aware of _how _Voldemort had killed his parents and that the same method had not worked on him. During this explanation, McGonagall had accidentally used the phrase "when you defeat him" and quickly covered up with a laugh and a nonsensical explanation. Harry stored this away for later.

As they went from store to store, McGonagall pointed out things here and there that Harry would not have been used to—such as the wizard waving a wand and levitating a stack of books into a bag for a customer at Flourish and Blotts and the kindly man at Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor who handed him an ice cream cone that sparkled like a diamond and didn't melt. They purchased robes and potions ingredients and a cauldron, moving from store to store until Harry felt like he was about to explode. He was beginning to understand Vernon's dislike of the chore.

As he waited outside Ollivander's wand shop behind ten other students with their parents, he began to leaf through "The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts." He scanned the table of contents and located a chapter with the title "Defeat of You-Know-Who." It was fairly brief, only fifteen pages, and he had enough time to finish it (with two students to spare), occasionally taking an absent-minded step forward when McGonagall would clear her throat.

"So," he said slowly, his first word since McGonagall had criticized Vernon earlier. "You people think I'm your savior."

McGonagall sputtered. "What?"

"Your little slip-up earlier," he said, sliding the book into his trunk, which was floating between McGonagall and him. "_But we won't have to worry about that when you defeat him._" He stepped forward in line. "These people think I have some sort of special anti-Voldemort (three people around him flinched) power. I'll let you know that there's only one thing that would have protected me. My mother died in the bedroom where I was killed. I don't know much about magic, but I'd reckon she had something to do with it."

"Mr. Potter?" Ollivander called out from inside the store.

"Do me a favor," he said curtly. "Remove the "Introduction to a Magical Existence" book from my trunk and shrink the rest, please." He strode into the shop and shut the door firmly behind him. He turned to face the shop owner and gave his best no-nonsense face. "Hello, Mr. Ollivander. I've heard the tripe you've been spewing at these students. I'm not as easily impressed. Find my wand in three tries and I'll acknowledge your talent."

The man sputtered, huffed, and hurried into a back room. When he returned, he presented the wand. "Eleven inches, holly, phoenix tail feather. Give it a wave."'

Harry picked it up, waved it about, and sent a shower of bright sparks streaming around the room, where they bounced from wall to wall before disappearing. Harry shook his head. "It's the right wand. I _am _impressed. How much?"

He exited the shop just as McGonagall was shrinking his trunk. She looked up in shock. He slid the wand box into his pocket, took his book, put the trunk in his other pocket and glanced up at her. "Back home now, please?" he said.

"You have your wand?" She said, disbelieving.

He rolled his eyes. This woman was beginning to annoy him. "No, I was just chatting him up. Old friend, you know?"

"You're not a very pleasant individual, Mr. Potter," she ground out.

"We all have our problems," he replied curtly. McGonagall's lips tightened, but she took his arm and Disapparated.

-0-

"The-Boy-Who-Lived," Vernon slurred. "Well, how about that. And you think your mother had something to do with that?"

"Think about it," Harry said. "I was a baby. How would I have cast a spell or anything like that? And to block a curse that can't be blocked? That would probably take years to learn. But my mother was in the room..."

Vernon grunted. "Seems as safe an assessment as any. No harm in investigating."

"This book is actually quite helpful," Harry said, looking up from the book splayed in his lap. "All these old traditions, magical transportation, the House system at Hogwarts, all these pureblood families..."

"Pureblood?" Vernon asked.

"McGonagall might have called them 'inbred idiots' but I pretended to not hear her."

"I studied European History in college before I started studying business management," Vernon said. "They don't run on a feudal system, do they?"

Harry flipped a few pages. "No, their government is very similar to ours."

Vernon took a sip of his drink. "Inbred. And you said something about purebloods?"

"Yes. There's a list of old family names and influential people who are alive now."

"It's probably people who use their lineage to claim superiority, and they're respected because of it." Vernon paused, out of breath momentarily, then recovered. "Probably have old money. Rich. Possibly corrupt, but most likely rich."

"Okay..." Harry said slowly.

"You're alone in their world, Harry. I can't help you and you know no one except for this Professor McGonagall, who sounds like a fool anyway. I'd advise you to steer clear of her. My suggestion to you is to get in good with these rich sorts. They can help you in many ways."

"This book is revised annually," Harry told Vernon. "Turns out McGonagall is the head of Gryffindor House. So, that's out. This Sorting Hat rubbish..." Vernon winced, having been subjected to entirely too much magical vernacular in such a short period of time. "I suspect I'll let it try to sort me, and if it tries to put me in Gryffindor, I'll refuse. Imagine having to deal with her all the time."

Vernon chuckled. "Are there House rivals?" he asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff are supposed to be rivals, and Gryffindor and Slytherin have a very heavy rivalry." Harry scanned the page with his finger. "It's said that Gryffindors are brave and Slytherins are cunning."

"Bravery's sometimes a word for foolhardiness," Vernon said sagely. "Cunning just means you're willing to use whatever tools you have to achieve what you want. Imagine if you were to end up in Slytherin House. That would really rankle McGonagall, I suspect." He finished the last gulp of the firewhisky that McGonagall had hesitantly consented to buy for Vernon.

They found that when it was mixed with cola, it glowed bright purple. So far, there were no adverse effects. This was good, because Vernon was planning to purchase a crate as soon as he could find an order form.

"So you have a trust fund set up for you," Vernon said slowly.

Harry nodded. "Yes, but it's set up for my school tuition."

"I was just surprised that you told me," Vernon admitted. He expelled purple smoke from his mouth, startling him rather badly. After he'd recovered, he turned shakily to Harry. "I just thought perhaps you were concerned that I would try to take it."

Harry regarded Vernon solemnly. "I trust you. I didn't always trust you, but I have ever since we started spending time together. Aunt Petunia doesn't snap at me anymore, I don't have to do all of the chores, and Dudley stopped picking on me at school. I get enough food, enough sleep, and I have my own room. Why would I hide anything from you?" He glared at the book in his lap. "McGonagall sort of made fun of you today, 'he's the very picture of a good father,' she said."

"I told you she sounded like a fool, Harry," Vernon replied, smirking. Harry set another glass of firewhisky and coke in front of him. "I spend time with my family, and I spend time with you. Perhaps I drink a bit more frequently than I should, and perhaps I didn't always treat you fairly, but can you really blame me? Your father was horrible to me."

Harry shrugged. "I could. I never knew my father."

Vernon grunted. "Why do we have to have talks like this when I'm drunk?" he grumbled.

"Because when you're sober only 'pass the butter, boy' or 'go to your room, we're having company over' are appropriate ways to address me," Harry said, grinning.

"I suppose that adds an element of difficulty to the situation."

"I think you're a great dad," Harry asserted, turning his attention back to the telly. "And not too bad of an uncle. We keep each other's secrets. I thought if I told you about the money, it would be safe with you."

"I suppose there's an element of trust on my end, too. You could have emptied a bottle of bleach into my second or third drink and I'd have never known the difference."

"Unlikely," Harry deadpanned. "An entire bottle of bleach wouldn't fit in a glass."

Vernon glared at him for a moment. "You know what I mean."

"Remember how you guys were just _pretending _I was homicidal?" Harry queried.

"Yeah..." Vernon paused. "Sorry about that."

"No problem. It was kind of fun. Everyone was scared of me for a while."

Another pregnant pause. Vernon idly swirled his drink in his glass, contemplating an answer that wouldn't make him look like more of an ass. He finally decided it wasn't coming. "So, September 1st, hmm?"

"That's the day."

"Platform 9 ¾ at Kings Cross Station?"

"Yep."

Vernon sighed. "I've been to Kings Cross. What do you do, run into the barrier between 9 and 10?"

"Yes, actually." Harry grinned.

"What? I've leaned against that barrier before. It's solid!"

"They open it magically. I suspect it's _enchanted_," he supplied, trying out the new word. "Only opens three times a year, on September 1st, then again in December when students go home for the winter holidays, and in June, when school lets out for the summer."

Vernon lifted the bottle of firewhisky again and prepared to pour some more. "I suppose that makes sense," he said.

"Do you ever think about not drinking some evenings?" Harry asked, eyeing the bottle distastefully.

"Yes, but generally after I'm already drunk enough to not remember it the next day."

"You might think about skipping every other evening," Harry told him. "McGonagall says it's bad for you to drink so often."

"McGonagall likes to talk a lot, doesn't she?" Vernon asked rhetorically.

"I can make ice cream sundaes, root beer floats, I can cook a variety of cookies..."

"You're on this hard, aren't you?" Vernon grumbled.

"I just want you to be around for a while," Harry said, his lip quivering.

Vernon was strangely moved. He swallowed a lump in his throat. "I'll be around, boy."

"Can I owl you?"

Vernon paled. "I—ah..."

"I read that Hogwarts has owls that are trained to use mailboxes if they have to," Harry said.

"And I don't have to see it?"

"You'd have to give it your response if you were writing back," Harry said.

"Seems a lot of trouble," Vernon said. "Why not just phone?"

"Aunt Petunia," Harry said impatiently.

"Ah." Vernon rose to his feet unsteadily and pointed the remote at the TV. It clicked off. "Yes, you may owl me. But keep it discreet."

"Really?" Harry asked.

"You sound like a little kid, brat."

Harry harrumphed. "I'm eleven," he said. "Can't I have a little fun?"

"Boy, you are going into a world where you know _no one._ Remember? You could be in potential danger. Try to see things from that viewpoint, keep your head on straight, study hard, don't take any shite from anyone, and try to find an extracurricular activity so you'll have a way to unwind. Don't let your guard down, but if someone seems trustworthy, you can make friends. Just don't be hasty in judging anyone, because to be honest—it could come back to bite you later."

"You've given me a lot to digest."

Vernon chuckled. Harry had learned that term from him the previous night and it was the third time he'd used it since then. "Just be smart," Vernon said. "You can make friends, just don't choose the wrong people. You don't _need _me. Besides, Dudley is going to Smeltings and I need to be around to support him. I'm here when you want to talk, but give me some time with the rest of my family, alright?"

"I understand," Harry said. "You want me to try to figure stuff out on my own before I talk to you."

"I'm tossing you in the deep end of the pool to teach you to swim," Vernon supplied.

"That's a really morbid expression," Harry said.

"I know, isn't it funny?"

"Good night, Uncle Vernon." They met at the bottom of the staircase and both hesitated, then Harry grinned sheepishly. "Excuse me."

Vernon moved and Harry slipped past him. "Good night."

Harry entered his room as Petunia exited the bathroom, so he was safe. However, Vernon was red-eyed, smelled of alcohol, and was currently leaning on the bannister, vomiting out dense clouds of purple smoke. Her screeches woke up most of the neighbors and they ended up explaining the story to a police officer who had arrived due to a noise complaint.

It turned out that Petunia was familiar with that particular effect of firewhisky, and demanded to know where he'd gotten it from. He said it had been in Lily's things, in the attic, and Petunia had queried as to why he had been drinking at eleven at night. His lack of a sufficient answer had him confined to the couch for a month, and his liquor was confiscated.

Consequently, Harry found himself making a lot of root beer floats and ice cream sundaes until the last day of August.


	3. Full Immersion

**Harry Potter and the Reluctantly Paternal Uncle**

**A/N**: _Hello, all. I fear for my continued safety, posting after this long of a break. To be honest, I wasn't sure I could continue this story, but, well, I need a hobby. A story, if you will. Ten and a half months ago, my best friend, Jeremiah, was killed in a Marine training accident. It was very abrupt and very, very painful. As time progressed, my depression (which has always been an issue, abusive childhood) and my anxiety continued to worsen. It got to a point where I was basically taking any pills I could get my hands on and smoking a lot of pot. Like a three-hundred-dollar-a-month habit. It came to a head about a month ago, and I had gotten ahold of some rather powerful narcotics. _

_Long story short(er), I OD'd to the tune of about nine times maximum dosage. The next three days are a bit of a blur (and most of my information is from other sources) but I ended up trying to kill myself—and would have succeeded—if not for a concerned family member calling the cops on me. I spent the next five days in a group home receiving counseling and undergoing a probationary period on medication (make sure there's no adverse side-effects, adjust the dosage as needed, etc.). _

_As to how I'm doing now? I'm sure if you're still reading, it'd be a nice piece of closure. I had what was called an 'extreme grief reaction' when Jerms died. He was a very close friend, we talked on the phone probably five or ten times a week, just for shits and giggles when we were bored, for accountability on working out and for other random parts of our lives. He had his shit together, I was working on mine. Problem is, I tend to have very few people that I trust, and he was the only person I've ever trusted implicitly. Understandably, his loss hit me hard. The increase in 'self-medication' ended up causing my depression to worsen while lessening the symptoms of anxiety, so I essentially spent ten months trying to chase down anything I could that would help me not feel anything. Now, I'm on antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication, and for the first time in months, my head feels clear. Jerms'll always be in the back of my mind, but I'm able to function now._

_I've recently purchased a car, I'll be going back to work soon, and I intend to get a second job to catch up on the bills I neglected while I was spending my money in more... frivolous ways. Given that my habits (and the time I spent supporting said habits) are now more in tune with not going out and getting blitzed, I can focus on other activities again. Like writing. And running. And all the things that used to be enjoyable, that are now considerably more appealing again._

_I apologize for such a long hiatus. Understand I was very bad off mentally, and the fact that I even got a second chapter out was a small miracle. Hope you enjoy the third chapter. I'm setting deadlines now, and I'm taking an hour each evening to write, so you all will see a chapter every Monday from here on out, and more when I have less to do. Just assume a week between chapters, to be safe, and if you're really pumped about knowing when, well, Author Alert. ;)_

_This chapter has some rather chaotic interactions, and an element I'd hesitated to add to the story, but one that upon further reflection, I decided I didn't want to leave out. It fits in nicely with my lack of desire to merely rewrite the books. Hope you enjoy, next chapter should be out on Monday, Aug. 2nd._

**Chapter Three: Full Immersion**

The morning Harry was to catch his train was an odd and awkward affair. All throughout breakfast, he received nothing but silence and sideways glances from his aunt and cousin. Vernon read the paper while he demolished a pile of waffles, and Harry kept his gaze on his own slowly-disappearing breakfast. After his last forkful of eggs, he began to clear the table. When he took away Vernon's plate, the man grumbled his thanks, causing Petunia's strained attitude to finally snap.

"Vernon, what the hell is this about? Ever since the _incident_," the last word bitten off severely, "you've been acting differently toward the boy. You're forcing Dudley to repress his emotions when you know the boy clearly aggravates him, and that's not something any child should have to put up with. You're treating him... Harry... almost like he's your _son._"

"Isn't that what people do when they agree to take a child in?" Harry queried before he could stop himself. He immediately regretted it—Uncle Vernon, while kinder now, did not exactly encourage blatant contradiction of his wife.

"I'm beginning to question why we ever did," Petunia sniped. Vernon looked surprised that she hadn't snapped a little more, but wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Boy, get your things. Petunia, I've said it before, and I'll say it again. He is a child. He does not deserve the same childhood as _I _had."

Petunia's face paled a bit more. "I never said that-"

"And it's about all we've given him. Petunia, we kept him in a cupboard. We gave him clothing that was sizes too large. Yes, it was clothing, and no, we don't have money to throw to 'charity cases,' but _we took him in._ It's done." He rose to his feet and folded his newspaper. "You carry on about 'what the neighbors think' so much... imagine what would happen if one of them called a social worker."

She stared at him. "But... he's... he's a freak."

"Dudley, go outside," Vernon directed. The large boy waddled past, giving his father a wide berth, in case the freakishness was contagious. He shot a terrified glance at his mother as he exited the kitchen.

When Vernon was sure Dudley had left the house, he turned back to his wife. "So you've said. But in the eyes of the law, he'd be an eleven-year-old boy who has been mistreated and neglected. You'd do well to remember that." He sighed deeply. "On a side note, if you want to do us all a favor, figure out who owns that BMW that was parked out front of the Polkiss' house last night. He's been around the neighborhood an awful lot but I never see anyone get out of the car and Piers said his parents didn't have anyone over. Dudley asked."

She nodded, color returning slowly to her face with the welcome change of subject. "I've noticed him too. Haven't called, but..." her voice trailed off.

Vernon let out another sigh, returning to the taboo subject. "Do you remember why we took him in?" Vernon asked.

She hesitated, then her shoulders slumped. "I know. And you're saying it wasn't his fault... but... you've changed..."

"Pet," he said, sitting down heavily, "I _have _changed. For _six years,_ I punished a child in my home because of the actions of his father and his mother. You were not responsible for my view of these people, but you didn't help any with your constant jealousy—yes, Petunia, jealousy—whenever your sister was around. I have always given all I have for this family, and I can't protect us from those people any more than you can. But he can. And he does."

"His father—you know of his father! _And _my sister! How can you say..."

"What does his father have to do with it? _We _took him in. _We_ are responsible for his well-being. Physical _and _emotional. His father was a... I don't know... I've never pretended to like James. But I know James would have defended Lily to the death, and he did. And Lily died protecting her son. And now, the 'protection' we're afforded is tied to him." He poured a cup of coffee for something to do, then set a pot of tea on for Petunia. Harry came back downstairs with his supplies (shrunken and not) while Vernon finished the coffee in silence. "I see nothing wrong with providing him with the childhood he had torn away from him."

Harry noticed his Aunt looked stricken, his cousin was missing, and Vernon was somberly regarding his wife. "I... I suppose I need to think on this," she finally said.

"Thank you," he said. He rose to his feet and kissed her on the forehead (Harry slunk back out of the room, a bit embarrassed) and she hugged him stiffly. "So you know," he murmured in a lower voice, "I've not been bewitched or any such rubbish. I will not be playing with wands or owls anytime soon. I still think it's unnatural, but I'm willing to make an exception in his case."

As he let go of her and turned to leave the room, she stopped him. "Vernon," she said, stepping closer to him, "I'm not... angry at you. I just need some time to think."

He gave her a tight smile. "I know, Pet. I've had plenty, and I have sort of sprung this on you." The front door burst open as he rose to his feet. Dudley ran inside.

"Dad! Dad! There's someone outside the house who wants to talk to you! He's got Harr-" he was cut off by a loud banging on the door. Vernon winced and strode out of the kitchen, then down the hallway to the door, fully intending to give whichever witch or wizard had shown up a piece of his mind. Moments later, he slowly backed away.

"Petunia, take Dudley and go in the back room, please." His voice was terse, and they immediately obeyed. He kept an eye on the door. "What do you want?" he asked as soon as his family was out of sight. The storm door opened to admit Harry and a cloaked, hooded figure.

"I don't believe introductions will be needed, and time is of the essence, so your compliance is key here if you don't wish to watch your family murdered," the man said calmly. "I need you to disown the boy. I could be wrong, but I believe the wards here will do some severe damage to anyone wishing to harm the boy." Almost as an afterthought, he added "it was a pain to disable the perimeter wards. Probably Dumbledore's doing."

While Vernon didn't really disapprove of people who disliked Dumbledore, he realized that the situation could get pretty bad, pretty quickly. "So it's me or you, then, isn't it?" he asked, thinking as quickly as he was capable of.

The man seemed taken aback. "What?"

"Well," Vernon said, speaking slowly and enunciating clearly, "if the wards will do severe damage to anyone who tries to harm him, then my disowning him would probably cause backlash on myself and my family. So, no."

"I've not been damaged yet," the man said, although he seemed a bit shaken by this information. To his knowledge, the Dursleys and the Potters had not been close. How did this man know of wards?

"Do you mean him any ill will?" Vernon asked sarcastically.

"For as long as the wards are up, no."

"So if I refuse, you'll just leave?"

The man laughed. "No, if you refuse, I'll kill your family. Leave the boy alive, but your family will die."

"The wards are tied to their blood. I find it unlikely that this protection would not extend to them as well, given that their continued well-being will continue to power it." Vernon was very out of his element here, but he had dealt with stressful situations at work before, and he was into his bullshit-what-you-don't-know mode. He was good at shoveling piles.

The man hesitated a beat, then his eyes narrowed. "I'm beginning to think that maybe these wards don't exist at all." Now Vernon knew the man was bluffing. So far, nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Unless the man was bluffing about killing his family. Could magic sense intent?

Vernon knew his continued survival depended on the wards being intact. He wondered if the treatment the boy had received had damaged the wards in any way, or if they degraded over time. He tried to think back to the letter that Dumbledore had written all those years ago, but could not remember anything about it. Shame Petunia had burnt it... "If you came in here with any intent of causing him harm, then you're not leaving unharmed," Vernon said, advancing on the two.

The man threw Harry roughly to the floor, eliciting a cry of surprise from the boy, before kicking him in the head with a heavily booted foot. "That's it," the man snapped. "I'm through with reasoning with you." Harry, woozy and terrified, did the only thing he could think of. As the man pointed his wand at Vernon, Harry struggled to his feet behind the man and lunged at him, grabbing his leg and biting him just above the knee.

Halfway through the incantation (_"Impe..."_) he jerked violently and growled at the boy, flinging him against the wall—and then began to writhe in pain. Red tendrils of magic emerged from the floor beneath his feet, translucent and gently glowing. The man stared at his feet, mesmerized, then before he had a chance to scream, his skin seemed to liquify and evaporate out of his robes. In a split second, all that was left of him was a wand and a steaming pile of clothing.

The tendrils then turned to Harry, brushing against his cheek, his scalp, and his leg. He seemed completely enthralled by them, not even afraid of what they had done to the intruder. A few moments passed, then the tendrils disappeared beneath the floor again.

Petunia cautiously peeked out of the back room. "Vernon?" she called, her voice shaky.

"It's alright now, Petunia, Dudley. You can come out." He was staring at Harry.

"Are you hurt?" Petunia asked, rushing up to her husband.

"I'm fine," Vernon said impatiently, rushing over to help Harry back up.

"They didn't hurt you?" she asked disbelievingly.

"They?" Vernon asked.

"Well... either of them, I suppose." She tried to look indignant, but the glare Harry shot her way seemed to keep her back from commenting further.

Vernon shook his head, as he stepped back from pulling Harry to his feet. "No, Harry actually stopped him from attacking me."

"What?" Petunia snapped.

"He bit him on the leg," Vernon said, chuckling. "After a kick to the head."

Petunia winced. "But he's so short. How'd he kick a full-grown adult in the head?"

Harry and Vernon both cracked up laughing. Aunt Petunia looked irritated. "Aunt Petunia," Harry said through his giggles, "he kicked _me _in the head. Then I bit him. Aunt Petunia?" he ventured again.

She folded her arms. "What?"

"He was going to try to hurt Uncle Vernon." His voice was quiet, the cheer gone from his face. "It was my mum. She protected him."

"Your mother is dead," she snapped. "Don't be silly."

"I know. The protection isn't. It healed me after I hit the wall. I felt calm the entire time, like—like she was with me." He picked up his scattered school things from the floor and put his hand on the door. "You might want to consider the fact that she's still watching." He turned and pleasantly greeted someone outside. "Hello, Headmaster." The door closed behind him.

Petunia let out a half-sob and made for the staircase, and Vernon sighed heavily. "Dad?" Dudley ventured.

"Yes?"

"H-Harry's going to be late. You said you'd t-take him fifteen minutes ago." He looked at his father as if seeking some sort of approval.

"Thank you, Dudley. I need to go speak to this gentleman outside. Please go up and stay with your mother until I get back inside, would you?"

Dudley hesitated. "Do we really have to be nice to him now?"

"We should have always been nice to him, but civility would be a good start," Vernon admitted.

"Mum thinks he's more trouble than he's worth," Dudley offered.

"Your parents aren't always right, Dudley," Vernon said, feeling a bit impatient. "We make mistakes too."

"Piers and Malcolm aren't going to be happy when they find out I have to be nice to him," the boy whined.

"They'll have to get used to it, I expect," Vernon said dismissively. "Go upstairs. I'll be up shortly." Dudley caught the hint and beat a hasty exit. Vernon walked outside, skirting around the robes on the floor.

-0-

"Hello, Headmaster," Vernon greeted cooly.

Dumbledore smiled graciously and offered his hand. "My name is Albus Dumbledore," the bearded wizard said, "but you can call me Albus."

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Vernon asked, his voice tinged with irritation.

Albus sat on the front stoop and stretched his legs out. Regarding Vernon solemnly, he said "I received word a few minutes ago from another witch living in the area that there had been an attack here. Given that I am in charge of the primary legislative body in England, and Harry's residence here is known to only a few people—myself included, I nominated myself to personally ensure that he was safe."

"Your 'wards' kept him safe," Vernon said.

Albus glanced at Harry, who appeared unharmed. "So they did," he agreed. "Did you have some concern about their efficacy?"

"The wards didn't activate until that bastard had his..." Vernon gestured, trying to pantomime the word.

"Wand," Albus supplied helpfully. Vernon winced.

"Yeah—that-pointed right at my face. Harry said the man was going to attack me with it. If Harry hadn't bitten him on the leg, he would have probably done so." Vernon glared at the man. "You're the Dumbledore who wrote us that letter, aren't you?" Dumbledore nodded. "So _you_ tell me why they didn't protect us."

"I will answer your question, but I need two pieces of information from you. I recently learned that there was a significant strengthening of the wards surrounding this home shortly after Harry's seventh birthday. Did you contract for that?" Dumbledore asked solemnly.

Vernon just stared at him disbelievingly.

"Didn't think so," the older man mused, eyes twinkling in amusement. "That would not have probably drastically changed the effect the wards would have, but warding is a very exacting art. Did anything occur here that was out of the ordinary at that same time?"

"That's when Uncle Vernon and I... started getting along," Harry supplied. "I mean, he wasn't mean before, but my stay here has always been kind of based off of something we both needed, not so much a desire for a second son." He glanced quizzically at Dumbledore, who had turned around to listen to him. "You set up these wards?"

"Yes."

"And you were responsible for leaving me here?"

"Yes."

"So anything you're about to accuse my uncle of is directly caused by that." Harry lapsed back into silence and sat down against the garden wall, staring out into the front lawn.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled all the more merrily for this bit of information. "You would be correct. So you started to get along... I suppose that _could_ strengthen the wards..." He turned to Vernon. "It is likely you were not unprotected. The wards sense for danger, and they are wards that are blood-based, meaning that they would be more likely to protect your wife, your son, and Harry first. However, I imagine, and this is speculation, that the wards would either have transported you out of the way of the spell or intercepted it—had he managed to get the spell off."

"But you're not certain," Vernon said, although his initial annoyance was starting to seem a bit overplayed. "And I do not possess the blood required."

"If you would like, I could come take a look at the wards after Mr. Potter has been delivered to the train station," Dumbledore offered. "Perhaps key them to your blood as well?"

"Could you wear something different?" Vernon asked irritably. He'd been trying to stay quiet about it, but old habits die hard...

Dumbledore looked down at his maroon robes embroidered with golden stars. "I suppose I could... I came here in a rush, I normally have a very fetching purple suit that I wear when I meet Muggle family members..."

"That will be just fine. And I may have a few questions for you then."

"Excellent!" Dumbledore exclaimed, clapping his hands together once, and startling both Harry and Vernon. "Well, then, let's get you to the train station, shall we?" He turned to Vernon. "Be expecting a few people to come by... it's our law enforcement agency... they'll be wearing blue robes and they'll throw up a perimeter ward—no one should be able to see them outside your yard." And with that, he grabbed Harry's shoulder, spun in place, and both of them disappeared with a crack.

Vernon turned to walk back into the house, so distracted that he didn't even think to feel bad about not seeing Harry off. More concerned about his wife and son, he mounted the staircase and headed toward the second story, hoping against hope that that was actually Harry's headmaster—robes and all. He could imagine the actual headmaster would be rather irritated to discover his star pupil had been kidnapped.

Halfway up the stairs, he smelled something burning and cursed fluently as he dashed back downstairs to pull the smoking tea kettle from the stove. As he rapidly moved dishes from the soapy water to the empty side of the sink, the tea kettle began to burn through the oven mitt he had placed it on. Cursing, he plunged the offending dish into the sink (mitt still attached) and turned off the stove top. He'd made it to the staircase again when the doorbell rang.

"FOR GOD'S SAKE!"

-0-

"Harry, we're actually about five minutes early," Dumbledore said as the two began to walk from the apparition point toward the platforms. "As I said before, I expect your aunt and uncle will receive a house call from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement very soon, and I'd like to be there when they arrive to help smooth things over since it was I who called them." He unshrunk Harry's possessions and loaded them onto a cart.

Harry nodded his thanks and began to push the cart toward the barrier. "Thank you, sir."

"Harry, when I left you with them, I had only your best interests in mind," Dumbledore pleaded.

"Yes," Harry said, giving the headmaster a shrewd look, "but you discounted theirs in the process." He disappeared through the barrier, leaving behind a rather shocked and guilty-looking man. Before Dumbledore had a chance to recover, Harry poked his head back through. "What House were you in at Hogwarts?" he asked.

"Gryffindor," Dumbledore replied.

"Thanks," Harry said, a resolute look crossing his face. His head vanished through the barrier again.

Dumbledore shook his head as if to clear it, schooled his features into a more neutral expression, and walked back toward the apparition point. "Definitely a Ravenclaw," he muttered in disappointment, waving his wand over his robes and transfiguring them into the suit he so favored. With a crack, he disapparated.

Back at the house, five Ministry officials were questioning Vernon and Petunia. Rather, one was doing the interrogation, one was calmly standing by, and three were making a nuisance of themselves, examining every Muggle oddity in the house under the pretense of investigation.

Vernon had managed to maintain the pretense of civility, while a shaken Petunia had excused herself to clean the kitchen.

Amelia Bones, the Department head of the aforementioned DMLE was trying to keep her temper. It was proving frustrating. "Sit _down,_" she snapped at one of the younger Aurors. He complied. "_Don't touch anything,_" she snapped at another, who hesitantly turned off the television and guiltily walked over to sit beside his partner in crime.

Before she could continue, a knock on the door was hastily answered by the third Auror, and he was greeted by Dumbledore. He escorted the wizard back into the room.

"Amelia," Dumbledore said, nodding. "Vernon," he added, as he took a seat next to the man.

"I got what happened here," Amelia said. "Between this and Barty's disappearing act, this is turning out to be quite an exciting day. You have anything you'd like to add? Mr. Dursley here gave me the basics."

"Barty?" Dumbledore asked. "As in Bartemius Crouch?" Hopefully, he added "senior?"

"Yes. The Department of International Magical Cooperation owled me an hour ago to say that he hadn't shown up for work today. As per policy, we sent a pair of Aurors to his home. When they arrived at his home, his elf was there but no one else was home. The elf had apparently been confunded. The elf led them to an upstairs bathroom. It was completely wrecked. No spell residue, no scorch marks, but blood all over the floor and the walls. They said it looked like someone tried to clean up after themselves, but we were able to get a viable sample."

"Have you been there yet?" Dumbledore inquired.

"Not yet, I'm going there after we finish here—that's it! Dawlish, I told you not to touch anything!" (The Auror in question was dismantling the TV remote.) "You, Perkins and Wadsworth get your asses over to the Crouch Manor! Shacklebolt, you stay here." The sheepish trio of Aurors went out through the back door and disapparated from the garden.

"They're all fresh from Academy, Madame Bones," Auror Shacklebolt intoned. "Give 'em a couple of months to get used to not being new."

She smiled tiredly at him. "I think a verbal warning's in order."

"Indubitably."

"Maybe with a silencing charm this time," she added, glancing over at Vernon. He and Dumbledore were talking quietly. "Albus," she said, "that wand. Kingsley ran diagnostics." The Auror nodded his confirmation. "There's an unlocking charm and another unidentifiable partial, but nothing aside from the two. That spell covers approximately the last ten years." She gave her fellow Order member and protege a hard look. "We're relatively sure it's Barty Jr's."

"Then these two incidents are connected," he surmised. He turned to Kingsley. "These wards, did they leave behind any organic residue?"

"None," the Auror said regretfully. "I checked when we arrived."

"What the ruddy hell is going on here?" Vernon burst out, finally pushed to the edge of exhaustion, confusion and indignation.

Dumbledore turned to him. "A man is missing. His son, presumed dead for several years, was possibly still alive, as the wand lying in your hallway belongs to him. They're running tests on blood found in the missing man's apartment. If it turns out to be his, we can assume he is dead and his son is responsible. If that is the case, then that-" he gestured toward the pile of robes "-would indicate that his son, too, is now dead. His son was a known supporter of Voldemort."

"So, if his son was presumed dead... why don't you just dig up his grave and check the body? There should be _something_ left that you can test." Vernon raised his eyebrows.

Amelia looked shocked. "He's right! If we get the test results from Crouch's place back and they're conclusive, and there's no body in the grave, then..."

"Then we have our man," Kingsley said. "I think we've taken up enough of the Dursleys' time today." He nodded respectfully toward Vernon, shocking the man slightly. "And I'd like to get to Crouch's before those three trained monkeys manage to muck up any evidence."

Amelia laughed and stood. She stuck out her hand for Vernon to shake it, and he did so hesitantly. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Dursley. I'll let Albus here get to work examining the wards on your home, and _hopefully,_" she glanced at Albus "we won't be seeing each other again."

"Ah," was all Vernon managed. The two officers disapparated, leaving him and Albus alone in the living room amongst an awkward silence.

"Vernon," Dumbledore began slowly. "I know your home has been invaded quite regularly this morning. I assure you that I can put up other wards sufficient to keep that from happening again. Or modify the existing wards to the same end."

"We'll need access for owls," Vernon admitted grumpily.

Albus brightened. "Of course!"

"And an Ogden's order form," he said, pressing his advantage.

Albus rummaged through his various pockets before pulling out a folded piece of parchment. "I happen to have one right here."

"You carry a copy on you?" Vernon said, surprised.

"Magical alcohol doesn't hurt your kidneys or liver," Dumbledore calmly explained. "A lot of the work I do comes with its fair share of stress, and I do it, for lack of other reasons, because so few wizards are competent when it comes to administration. When I get home at the end of the night, I like to relax."

Vernon squinted at him suspiciously, while admitting to himself that perhaps wizards were more similar to non-magical folk than he had expected. He'd made similar excuses to his doctor in the past.

"I'm a regular customer," Albus said bluntly. Vernon laughed before he could help himself. "I carry it on me, because, honestly," he said, "I carry everything on my person. There's a foot stool in my right hip pocket."

"Really?" Vernon asked.

Albus dug an umbrella, a large ring of keys, a handful of wrapped lemon candies and finally a foot stool from his pocket. "Really."

Although it pained him to say it, Vernon admitted "that is kind of neat."

"Freakish, unnatural, but neat," Albus cheerily agreed. Vernon's cheeks colored. Just ever so slightly, because he didn't approve of embarrassment. Or irony. "So, yes, here you are. I have the original at my office, so I can just copy it later."

"Which office?" Vernon asked, feeling a slight amount of trepidation about a school for children run by a possible alcoholic.

"My... home... office," Albus lied somewhat awkwardly.

"Ri-ii-ight."

"I'm going to go work on your wards," the older man hastily interjected. He gave Vernon a significant look. "You know, the ones that can save your life?" He then hastily beat an exit toward the front door.

Vernon found Petunia in the kitchen, tossing the kettle in the trash can. "I'll replace that," he offered. She shrugged. "I'm really sorry..." he tried again.

"Vernon," Petunia said, her voice slightly higher than normal, which was bad, because on a good day her grating screech tended to cause migraines... "sit down and have a drink with me."

He stared at her hand, which held a half-drunk glass of firewhisky, and at the open bottle on the counter. "But you said..."

"Forget what I said," she snapped.

"Right," he amended, grabbing the bottle and tipping it back. Moments later, he belched flame, startling Petunia and igniting his eyebrows.

On the bright side, he mused as he frantically splashed dirty water from the sink onto his face, Petunia hadn't giggled like that in years.


End file.
